Hawke smiled softly, and said in a low voice, "I hardly see how all
this brings you over here. The Rose blooms by the far-away Jumna."

"Then know, my friend," laughed Anstruther, "such a rose as the
peerless Nadine Johnstone must have a duenna." He deftly caught an
impassioned glance from the softly shining brown eyes, and hastily
went on. "She was educated right here in this emporium of watches,
musical boxes, correct principles, and scientific research. Mesdames
Justine and Euphrosyne Delande, No. 122 Rue du Rhone, conduct an
institute (justly renowned) where calisthenics, a view of the lake,
a little music, a great deal of bad French, and the Conversations
Lexicon, with some surface womanly graces, may all be had for
some two hundred pounds a year. Miss Justine Delande, a sedately
gray-tinted spinster, has been tempted to remain on guard for
a year out in India, having safely conducted this Pearl of Jeunes
Personnes Bien Elevees out to the old Qui Hai. I have been charged
with some few necessary explanations and negotiations, the delivery of
some presents, and, when I have visited this first-class institute,
enjoying all the attractions of the Jardm Anglais and the Promenade
du Lac, I shall flee these tranquil slopes of the Pennine Alps.
Incidentally, the records of Mademoiselle Euphrosyne will confirm
the very natural story of the would-be Sir Hugh, whose vanished
wife no Anglo-Indian has ever seen. She is supposably dead. A last
official note after I have run on to Paris will close up the whole
awkward matter. I will call there tomorrow and then take the early
train, as I am on for a lot of family visits and sporting events
before I can settle down to have my bit of a fling."

"It's a very strange story," murmured Alan Hawke. "No man ever
suspected Hugh Fraser of family honors."